


She Asks

by Ciaossu



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciaossu/pseuds/Ciaossu
Summary: She guides him, in all things, and especially in this. There is no room for questioning, no room for doubts or even thoughts of his own. She asks for something, and it is done.





	She Asks

The apprehension leaves as he steps into her quarters. There is no room for it here.

She guides him, in all things, and especially in this. There is no room for questioning, no room for doubts or even thoughts of his own. She asks for something, and it is done.

She is not unyielding however. She pushes him. Prods him. Finds the limits and stretches them farther, but she never crosses them. Never takes from him more than he is willing to give to her.

It is rare he is not willing to give to her.

She has him follow her in, and the doors are shut behind them. It is just them, as it always is. The entire country is her domain, but nowhere is she more to Gerik then in this room.

She smiles. Something inside shifts, and the still frame changes. He is on her knees before her, adoring, but never touching.

Fingers thread through green tresses. His eyes slide shut. She is gentle, until she is not, but she is never cruel. Fingertips graze the side of his face. She asks him to strip.

He is bare before her, just as she asked. She sits on the bed, watching, skin hidden away. He dares not suggest he do the same for her. Had she the intention, she would ask it of him. She does not, and so he does not. He kneels before her, devout before a shrine, and she reaches out to him, stroking his face once more.

The deeds are never the same. Blindfolded at times. Bindings, tools, whatever push she wishes to give him. The shame didn’t burn as fiercely as it once did. She asks him once if he wished to stop. Promised there was no shame in that, but there was no shame in completing her tasks either. He continued. The shame never returned in the moment, but the freefall was always risky.

She is soft still. There is no push, no strain this time. She stands once more before him and brushes cloth away. She bears herself before him, and she asks him to eat.

He eats like a man having his last meal. She coos and praises him and when she finishes, he drinks her like he has never quenched thirst in his life.

There is praise. Short, soft, fingers through his hair and he melts at the sensation just as she knows he will. The softness does not last, as he knows she will. Fingers become a tether, and he is guided, moved to the bed where he rests, waiting. Her fingers trail his skin, mapping her territory. He is open to her, unflinching, and she takes her time.

It is unmanly. It is the common perception among the men he works beside. To be taken, to not be in charge. It is unmanly and laughable and though Gerik says nothing (because what can you say, when the very association with you would tarnish the deity you uphold), the seed of shame returns and festers and he wonders, when he is weak and weary, if there is weight to their world.

But there cannot be. He knows this, and she promises him. It cannot be the truth, not when she looks so beautiful over him, and her fingers trail low, lower than those fools think they should go, and she asks his permission of him.

He gives it, every time, and he is yet to be disappointed by her.

She enters him, slow at first, gentle once more. She covers him with comforting words and hushed encouragements, soothing the ache that comes with the stretch. But she never allows him to stagnate. There is more, slowly, slowly, until she removes herself from him. She is a queen still, and a queen is always prepared, and though the loss of her leaves him empty and wanting for a moment, she is back soon enough. She is always back soon enough.

Something else is there now that is not her, but enters the same, but the stretch is different now. She pushes him, further, slowly further, and soon he cries out. She does not always allow the end he chases, but tonight she is generous. He finishes, loudly, undertoned by praises and emphasized by her hands exploring and the faintest touch of her lips against him.

He chases high, but it makes the fall even harder.

She never allows for that, she eases his descent as much as she can. She pushes him, but she would never break him. Everything is discarded, and she asks him to come to her as she lies in her bed. He does, slowly, for he is still in her realm and her word is still his law. 

He settles in by her side, and she drapes his bare form, warming him in the same blankets she sleeps in. He is pulled against her, head in her lap and her fingers return to his hair one final time. His blessed communion, reward for all his devotion to her. She soothes him in one way, and in the other, she reads.

The sound of numbers fills the airs. Orders, stories, the ongoing of the realm that sees her other face. It is strange, perhaps. It is never romantic. He does not expect that of her, and she never asks it of him. It is the routine that reminds him of life outside the shut doors, hours after their deeds are done. It is straws to cling to as slowly, the boundaries retract, and he is able to fill the outline with the pieces of himself once more. It is normal, their routine, the worship ritual he practices.

It is the middle of a report of another’s latest job that she stops. She is silent, but when she speaks, it fills the room in a way that is unignorable. “You leave in the morning for your next contract.”

It is not a question, but she does not continue. Bleary, still not whole, Gerik blinks through his thoughts until the memories bubble up. “Frelia.” He croaks. “Escorting and guarding the prince.”

She hums shortly. She does not look at him. She thinks something of this job, but does not say it. He does not ask it of her. If she wished to share, she would.

“You will see me when you return.” She states it as a fact. It is a fact, as far as Gerik is concerned, but something about her tone causes him to pause. There is something wrong in the way she speaks. She does not share, does not look at him. Their sole connection is the fingers that remain in his hair. It concerns him.

“I will. As I always do.”

She smiles. There is a melancholy to it. There is to much she does away from the throne. There is far too much sadness that comes with a life of importance. “Not as you always do. But you will see me once more.”

He does not question her. A time in the future, he will wish that he had. Perhaps things would have changed then. He knows it unlikely. Her hands drift from his hair to his face, covering his eyelids.

She asks him to sleep.

He does as she asks.

**Author's Note:**

> :33333333333c


End file.
